Elder Scrolls: Impossible
by WackyJaber
Summary: Multiple original characters follows the story of political and economical intrigue in Elsweyr. A necromancer, an orc out for revenge,a Khajiit actress and others all try to find ways to survive the strange and dangerous events that happen in the city of Senchal, while the Skooma trade has become something more sinister than the empire could ever have imagined.
1. Chapter 1

**The Necromancer**

The quill dipped quickly into the inkwell before Jack Kreacher scrawled his own illegible name on the bottom of a bank note made from fresh fibers. He lifted the parchment up and sniffed the fumes wafting from the drying black ink while the candlelight flickered on his mahogany desk. Putting his head back, he sighed and put the paper back down while the sound of irregular footsteps came up from behind him.

"Kreacher, you asshole. I told you put a tether in the bathroom so I could use the damn bucket and not have to worry about falling into my own shit. Not so you could hang a stuffed cat like some maccab toilet scarecrow."

Kreacher leaned back in his chair, still in his surgical apron with only his gloves off so he could properly feel with his fingers. Hooking his toes on the back of desk so he wouldn't fall on his back he looked back and saw the upside down image of his yellowish roommate/business co-owner/hobbled stick leaning friend, Lareal. "Sorry, Diz. I forgot what it was was there for, and… well, I just thought it would be funny."

Lareal, leaning on his hickory stick, as usual, went slowly to the unopened window that was right beside Kreacher's working desk. "I don't see why you'd think that was funny. But then again, I don't see why you do a lot of things, like-" He pushed opened the shutters with a weathered hand and let the bright, Elsweyrn sunlight spill in. "-why would you waste candles in the middle of a cloudless, sunny day?"

A sudden, violent sneeze caused Kreacher to lurch and topple out of his chair. "Damn it. Damn this country and it's cat inhabitants and damn me most of all for coming here in the first place." Kreacher got up on one knee and used the desk as leverage to pull himself up. He fumbled for a bit to open one of the drawers, tugging it a few times as it constantly got stuck, until it finally came free. Reaching inside, he pulled out a small, fragrant bottle filled with a special blend of herbs that helped relax his sinuses. He pointed an accusing finger at Lareal as he uncorked the contents with his teeth. "Candles aren't nearly as expensive as this is, Diz. You want me to be considerate of your disabilities, fine. Just be more aware of mine is all I'm asking."

His friend scoffed and glanced outside where the sound of horse driven cart rolling by reach their ears. "If you're seriously comparing your allergies, which is mildly annoying at best, to my gimped leg then you've got a serious ego on yourself. Honestly, I don't understand how I can stand it. I suppose a lifetime of drinking snake venom will eventually give you an immunity to it, but I'd rather not have to deal with it all. Lareal looked away from the window and at Kreacher, then to the bank note on the desk. "I suppose you'll want me to take that over to Shadya, right?"

"It's probably for the best." agreed Kreacher. "You know how we are. I don't want to accidentally drive up the rent again if it can be helped. We'd be on the street if it goes up much higher; unless, of course, you actually start bringing in some septims on your own."

Ignoring that last comment, Lareal took the banknote and stuffed it into his pocket. The hickory stick clanked as he limped to the front door. But before leaving he ran a palm through his short, straw colored hair and listened for something.

"My time keeper didn't go off even though the noon has went. I should fix that." Then Lareal was gone. The bell above the door rang as he left.

Kreacher closed the opened window as soon he left then spent the next five minutes pondering what his afternoon activities would consist of. He decided that he would make the rounds on supplies to make sure that everything was organized and stocked up. There was no telling when the next apothecary would come through and it was best to know what he needed before hand. So he opened the door to the basement and went down the stairs, stepping into the room where he did most of his work. Inside were a lot of drawers and cabinets, along with sharp knives and frightening instruments that looked like torture devices. Thankfully, that's not what most of them were for, and in actuality everything was kept sterile for when the need arises to use them. In the center of this room was a square table with a smooth surface to place patients.

It was dark as briar's heart down there. Kreacher had to light a lantern to see where he was going, and placed the lantern on a hook hanging down from the ceiling. Then he proceeded to take stock with a small roll of paper with a list of everything he needed. He would open a cabinet, see that he had enough disinfecting alcohol to effectively poison an elephant, close the door and then move on. By the time he was finished he had marked down on his paper that he needed several more spools of thread, for stitching, and was also missing a bag of tranquilizer he had bought last week.

"Now the question is, did I lose the pint or did big rat eat it and i'm going to find it's cadaver under the ice box?" That was a question he set out to find the answer to at once. Unfortunately, there was no dead rat under the ice box when he went to go check and before he went to look elsewhere he heard the ringing of the front door echo all the way down to where he was at.

"Hello? Is there anybody here? My pet is sick."

"I'm coming." responded Kreacher, hollering back up the stairs.

When he reached the top of stairs he saw the owner of the voice was a tall Khajiit man with a lion's mane of white hair. His outfit was minimal with wool woven trunks and straw sandals; and in his arms he carried what looked the still body of a Nipon chameleon.

"Sorry for the wait. Is this the pet?" asked Kreacher, pointing at the chameleon. "Eh. Doesn't seem to be moving. How long has it been like this?" He wiggled the critter's foot with a gloved finger. Nothing.

The Khajiit eagerly gave Kreacher the chameleon, laying it in his arms like a babe. "Yeah, He's been like this all morning. Truth be told, I know he's dead. But my son… he still thinks there's something that can be done. He found it in the forest, so I'm thinking of going out and getting another just like it."

Kreacher tried to pay attention while also attempting not to be apparent that he was holding his breath. Already he could feel his nose tingling with the inclination to go into a sneezing fit.

A bulge in the critter's throat caught his attention and he opened the mouth to get a better view. "Uh huh." Suddenly he looked up at the Khajiit, as if seeing him for the first time. "Sorry, what's your name? I forgot to ask."

"S'Aliit."

"Well, S'Aliit," said Kreacher. "It looks like your pet's airways had been obstructed. Looks bad, but luckily there's something I can do. You don't have to get a new pet after all."

The Khajiit doubled back in confusion. "What? You're saying it choked to death… and somehow you can heal it? Now, I'm no healer but-"

"Exactly," interrupted Kreacher. "you're not. In fact, you look like a fisherman, right? You'll just have to trust me when I say I can fix your lizard cause that's all you can do. I'll be back before you know it in just a few short minutes. In the meantime, I've got a few balls of yarn I can lend if you need some entertainment."

If the affronted look on S'Aliit's face was any indication Kreacher was about to get a few broken bones if he didn't leave at that exact second. So, he took the chameleon downstairs into the basement where all of his supplies where and lay it down on the table. Taking a pair of tweezers out of a drawer he opened the animal's mouth one last time and reached in. Out came a big spider covered in mucus and spit, the cause of the airway obstruction. Though there was no doubt the chameleon was dead at this point, but Kreacher still had something up his sleeve. He took to a cabinet and shoved aside jars of suppositories to reach trunk in the back. Once in the trunk he looked upon rows and rows of Geode gems, each with an animal label above them. He took one with _chameleon_ assigned to it and closed the trunk up. Going back to the table he took the gem and touched it to the small of its head, whereupon a blinding light filled the room. When the Kreacher blinked the stars out of his eyes he was greeted with the sight of the chameleon struggling to get off its side.

The look on the Khajiit's face when Kreacher went up with the revitalized animal was priceless; but he put a price on it anyway.

"A hundred and fifty septims?!"

Despite the fact that S'Aliit had a small miracle clinging to his arm he wasn't very receptive to Kreacher's way of doing business. "It's not that much at all," insisted Kreacher. "Honestly, a healer at a temple would have asked for more, and now you get to go back home to one of the happiest boys in all of Tamriel. This is a bargain." He could see it in the Khajiit's eye: anger and suspicion. Kreacher got that a lot but usually clients don't act out on it. Sometimes they did though, and he was currently trying to make one of them pay for the vase they broke from over a month ago.

"Please," asked S'Aliit. "can't you lower the price? I'm not bringing much in right now. The fish have been scarce and I want to get my wife and children something nice at the Merchant's Festival."

 _Damn, not the sympathy card. I've never been able to resist a pity plea._ Sucking the air through his teeth, Kreacher placed his palms on his waistband and shuffled his feet. After a moment of false pondering he eventually waved his hand in proclaimed defeat. "Alright, alright. I'll accept ninety but I don't want you letting others know I'm cutting you a deal. Everyone with a pet fly will want a discount if I'm not too careful." That was acceptable for S'Aliit, and with a quick exchange of hands Kreacher was ninety septims richer than he had been half an hour ago. After the Khajiit had gone Kreacher went to the kitchen and stood with his hands splayed on the counter, watching the fireplace dry his socks as they hung above it. Some blend of herbs was burning in the hearth; smelling of lavender and maple. It made him nostalgic for the open air on a fresh summer's day. Lareal had often tried to push Kreacher to go outside, and being alone had the uncanny effect of making him crave the company of others. _But what if a client comes in while I'm gone, or if my high elf friend comes back and falls into the toilet again? It would be irresponsible of me to meander around the city._

"Oh well. Life's made for taking risks is what I always say."

He made sure to lock the door as he left. A wooden sign with the words _Lareal Inventors & Kreacher's Petnasium_ dangled from a wooden post right off the porch, a wild vine growing through the cracks. On either side of the shop were two other stores. _Power Pottery_ on the left, and _Second Skin_ on the right. Both were owned by the same man, a wood elf by the name of Oridir. In fact, it was beginning to become difficult to find a store or shop not owned by that Bosmer. Every shop in Senchal from the slums to the high risers were falling one by one into his golden lap. He had even come to Kreacher's and Lareal's place to try and open a discussion on property price. "It's not as if you're doing anything worthwhile here anyway," he had said. Just the thought of that old and wavering voice set Kreacher's blood on boil. Instead of focusing on that unpleasantness though he distracted himself with the sight's. He followed the cobble stone road to the end of the merchant district and then took a shortcut down an alleyway that saw him in front of the one the oldest foundations in all of Senchal, the Moon Temple. Kreacher had planned on spending the afternoon by the docks to gaze out at the sea, but a commotion brought his attention to the steps. A large crowd had began to form, using the stone stairs as theater seats while performers played their instruments at the base. A few carts that served as homes to these traveling minstrels were parked just nearby under the shade of a large and twisted beech tree.

"Greeting my music lovers!" bellowed a woodwind playing dark elf, skin blue in color and ash in shade. "Merchant's day is not far off, but let's not forget ourselves in the face of discount prices and cheap treats. Nothing is more important than community or family! So spend these next few days with each other if you can! You never know how many days you have left. Actually, why not spend your time here? We'll be performing all week! My name is Fweet the Wind Whistler and remember, any support you can provide would be much appreciated." What support Fweet was hoping for, Kreacher could not see. Most of his audience consisted of the homeless and deprived. Some had even made makeshift beds on the steps where they could more easily access the free meals given by the temple acolytes. A few of them were watching from the opened temple doors at that exact moment, wearing their white and red robes in symbolism of the two moons: Jone and Jode.

"Go to the Briar lair if you have no care!" sang a woman's voice. The one who it belonged to lept out of a caravan dressed in a leafy garb. It was clear that she was meant to look like a wood elf, but her tail and fur which poked out of the green robes made it clear she was a wiley Khajiit. "I'll eat any wanderer that I ensnare! If you pick a leaf, a flower, or weed there's a dark deed awaiting at home for thee!" the Khajiit wore a wooden mask with a threatening scowl, and kept low to the ground as the minstrels played played their instruments. The woodwind played a light hearted tune while an orc on a pair of tall twin drums banged up a jungle beat. Suddenly, the Khajiit woman's head twisted at the sound of a bird chirping, and she leapt up into an overhanging tree limb in an impressive display of acrobatics. Then a man in a stuffed shirt and a comically designed mask walked in from stage right.

"Daisy petals or dandelion leaves. I cannot suffer an evening without these. If cheese with geese is a pleasant tease a salad with trey seeds is twice to please!" He picked a nearby flower and placed it daintily in his hair as the Khajiit dressed as a wood elf watched from above making exaggerated movements of obvious rage. "Dew drops as dressing. Berries a blessing. Wood Nyphs do not scare me from trying a little tasting."

In the tree, the Khajiit cried out to the heavens with her fists in the air. "A fool! A fool! A heretic and a ghoul! Briar trees give me the power to make this right and I'll make this tool regret his deplorable trite! Ideas have I of a-"

"Treat, Imperial?"

A hunched woman with a unibrow with a basket of honey coated nut sweets stood near Kreacher, offering one in a wrinkled hand.

"They're free?" asked Kreacher. She nodded her head and smiled with mouth full of crooked teeth. He felt almost guilty as he accepted it, but the taste put it out of his mind almost immediately. It was sticky and clumpy, but there was a certain something of having the honey stick to the roof of his mouth that made all the more satisfying. By now, on stage, the fat man who had eaten the flowers had a spell cast on him by the briar. His head had turned into a monkey's face, or rather, the Khajiit had come down and placed another mask on him while he pretended to sleep.

"Demon!" cried the fat man's wife as she came on stage floor. Her outfit consisted of many silks and fell down till the dress was being dragged across the dirt and weeds. "Where have you taken my lovable but stupid husband?!"

A hand grabbed Kreacher by the shoulder, startling him and draw his attention away from the show. Lareal's eyes were seething with anger. "Kreacher? Kreacher, what are you doing out of the shop? The irresponsibility is-"

"Woah, woah, woah. Calm down." said Kreacher, taking Laurels hand off of his shoulder. "I don't think we have to worry about any customers going elsewhere. There's no other animal doctor in the entire country as far as I know. What's this about?"

Lareal hung his head low and whispered to himself. A militia guard looked over at them curiously. Shaking his head, Lareal looked back up at Kreacher; now looking frightened and sad rather than mad. "Shadya has raised the rent by two thousand."

"Two thousand!" exclaimed Kreacher in alarm. "That's double than what it was previously. Why? Did she give an explanation?"

With a huff, Lareal sat down on the soft grass. "I forgot to ask." he said, pinching the middle of his brow. He set his stick down by his side and sighed. Cicadas ringed loud in the hot summer air as the two looked at each other, even louder than the theater troupe as they played and sang. The hot humid air was suffocating. "I'll… have to start taking commissions again."

Kreacher's face went pale.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Grieving Soldier**

The time to be alone and grieve was not a privilege soldier were allowed, especially for the commanding officer of the Imperial legion brigade. But that did not mean much to Faux, son of Enyatax. Even in his darkest dreams could he not have imagined the pain that gripped his heart when the messenger came with the news he had been dreading. "Sir, they have been found." Faux stood up from his bedstead, still undressed besides his robes. The stone floor chilled the soles of his feet.

"Alive?" he asked hopefully.

The messenger was young as far as cadets in the legion go. His hair was long and black as charcoal, skin still smooth with face of youth. But even he looked weary as he struggled to find the words, still clasping the handle of the door like a lifeline. Faux shoved past him and into the hall. The walls seemed blurry and unreal and the air tasted metallic. Two soldiers came around the corner.

"... all dead?"

"It looked like it, but I heard that one survived and is being questioned?"

Faux grabbed the soldier by the paulders and shook him hard. "Where?! Where are they?!" The soldier looked at him fearfully and sputtered out, "C-Courtyard…" and was released as fast as the officer could turn and sprint. Never before had the barracks been so full of chatter as when Faux blazed through it's halls that day. Even the recruits who were not on duty were in their armor, gossiping in hushed voices which echoed and brought more worry down on him. Nothing was good. But there was still hope.

There was a mist hanging over the courtyard when Faux came out of the barracks door, unshaven and wild eyed. He saw that the main gate was open and that a cart was being pulled in by a couple of havel horses. Men were crowding around cart, silent. Some turned when they heard Faux approach. One of them was General Cargas, an imperial with the golden armor of the imperial city and the dragon of Akatosh stamped on his armor. He stepped in front of Faux and placed a hand on his chest as if to stop the man. "You don't want to go in just yet. Trust me."

"I have to see," choked Faux, son of Enyatax. "My son… I have to see if my son is on that cart." Faux went pass the general, who stared up at the sky with a stony expression. Many of those who had gathered stepped aside out of consideration for their commanding officer, and those who had their attention drawn elsewhere found themselves being pushed to the ground. After breaking through the last ring of onlookers Faux was able to see exactly what was in the cart. A stack of dead bodies in imperial legion armor met his sight. Their steel was rusted and dented, with dried blood staining most of their forms. One soldier separated from the crowd and took off his helmet. He was crying.

"My friend, Ezgolath." He reached out to touch the arm of one the dead soldiers, an arrow jutting from his throat. "He's dead. my friend is dead."

Faux looked at all the bodies. He could not see the face of his son. Then he remembered that he had heard talk of one soldiers surviving and the rays of hope he had been looking for had once again filled his heart. "Cargas!" Immediately, general Cargas come up to Faux's side, still as stoic as ever. His posture was stiff and straight like anyone trained by the elite train the emperor's guard would be. "Someone survived. Where is he?"

Cargas shook his head. "It's not your son, Officer. It's not Theonidus"

"Then… where is he?"

"That's exactly on what we plan on asking the survivor. Get yourself in armor and you'll be able to join us for questioning, I suggest sooner rather than later." Just as Faux was about to turn and leave Cargas grabbed him firmly by the arm and spoke sternly. "Remember yourself, Officer. You're representing the Empire here and if you embarrass us in anyway we'll have you replaced with someone else. Keep that in mind when you consider acting out on your emotions."

With a yank Faux's arm was free. He avoided looking at the general as he went back to the barracks, all the men's gazes bearing down on him as he crossed the courtyard.

Soon after putting on his uniform Faux made to medical ward, a small wooden building more akin to a shed. Placed near the side of the front gate, almost nobody ever made use of it since dealings with injuries were uncommon at best. If a lot of soldiers needed medical attention they were usually taken to a temple for healing and the shed was used almost exclusively for V.I.P.'s who needed extra protection . A guard was placed at the front door to prevent onlookers and when Faux came up to him the stepped aside and let him pass. There was a healer inside, dressed in the light blue robes of Mara, tending to the soldier, though he did not seem to be hurt much while he sat up in the cot with his clothes off. Only a few bruises and cuts including one just above his brow. It seemed a bit overkill to have the only healing mage in Senchal tending to him when others in the city might find more use of her but there she was all the same. But she wasn't the only one there. Ra' Zaumder, the main representative of the government of Senchal, was standing near the window wearing brightly colored silk robes and golden wrist and ankle bands that spoke of his stature. He was a Khajiit, with whiskers that had grown long and thick, like a strange example of what a moustache could be to a person who was foreign to the concept of facial hair. Also there was Dunarr the Tongue Looser, standing closely next to the soldier's cot; Do' Næt the Khajiit, militia leader of the city of Senchal; and Cargas who was breaking off a whispered conversation with Ra' Zaumder as Faux came in.

"About time you showed up," complained Dunarr. "We got questions, and not just for Sebastian here." He gave the soldier on the cot a playful shove, which the soldier did not seem to appreciate judging by the terrified look he was giving him.

"For instance, what was a small battalion of imperial soldiers doing in Senchal late in the middle of the night," asked Do' Næt. "I don't remember anyone alerting me about-"

"Then that's your own fault," reprimanded Ra' Zaumder, smacking Do' Næt in the back of the head. "If you had been on duty when the courier had arrived then you would have been informed. Instead, your stand-in got the letter and the entire warehouse district had to quartered off. Don't be so eager to cast stones when you yourself are guilty of certain sins."

The militia leader scowled but kept his mouth shut. To say that the atmosphere in that room was intense would be an understatement. Nobody looked happy to be there, but there they were. The General and Faux where they only ones who knew the context of what had happened and the others were either trying to understand or look for someone to blame. "Seven soldiers were found dead, piled out on the beach about a quarter mile out from warehouse 3. Multiple causes of death including arrow wounds, puncture wounds and bludgeoning. Sebastian was the only one found alive, playing dead underneath the identified body of Sergeant Layfe. What happened? Why didn't he come directly back here when he was alone?"

They all turned to look at the Lieutenant who looked up nervously from the ground, the healer's hands glowing as they touched his bleeding shoulder. "W-we…" He bit his bottom lip. "It was an ambush. It was supposed to be a simple skooma bust b-but there were others hiding in the shadows. They came out with spears and stabbed at as from behind; a-and then an a-arrow hit the man next to me and blood j-j-just sprayed on me. I'd like to say I fainted, but in truth I just dropped like a ragdoll and stayed still. I don't know how but everything just went wrong. It all just went…" Sebastian trailed off, not being able to stare any of them in the eyes. General Cargas, of all people, was the one to go up and encourage the young man.

"We need details, Lieutenant." He placed a strong hand on his shoulder and gripped tightly while staring intently intently in his eyes. "Tell everything you remember from beginning to the end. How did you go in? Can you recall any of the men's faces or names? Did anyone say anything? Please, anything may be able to help us bring these individuals to justice. You're friends need you to avenge their deaths." It seemed to work. The lieutenant seemed to be more empowered somehow. His brow furrowed and his a fire burned within his irises.

"We occupied an abandoned building one block away from the warehouse, the one that used to be a fishery. It smelled awful, and I complained about it too. I asked Sergeant Layfe, 'Why do we have to wait in this terrible place when Barnabelle's inn is just down the road. He told me, 'If you don't think they have an informant there then you must be a dult. It would be a dead give away if this many imperials all checked in on the same day, wouldn't it?' I couldn't find an argument so I just shut my trap. We all just sat there, bored to death as we waited for Theonidus give us the go ahead. He was scouting… looking for any activity, and he came when the sun had set. 'Okay,' he whispered, putting on his armor. 'Go in fast, because they'll hear us coming down the street before they even see us. Also, keep tight and make sure there are no gaps between any of you.' So, we picked up our spears and our shields and we charged down the street. He was right. We were very loud. A lot of folk looked out of their windows with their nightcaps on as we ran."

"This all seems fairly normal so far," said Faux. "But also, completely unnecessary. I want to know what happened once you were in the warehouse. What happened to Theonidus?!" The general looked at Faux with that emotionless expression of his, while the two Khajiit whispered to one another. Dunarr yawned and looked completely uninterested as far as the story went.

Sebastian continued on.

"The warehouse door was locked when we marched right on up there, but it broke pretty easily after a few kicks. Those inside, these… goons all looked surprised when we came in. They were loadings up the crates when we formed up ranks around them. Loads of skooma pipes, bags of moonsugar, and jars of some kind of milky looking liquid were everywhere. Literally, just everywhere. The Khajiit that were holding these things just let them drop them down to the ground as they hurried to put their hands, or paws rather, up. I think there were five of them, but it's hard to recall what they looked like since a lot of Khajiit look the same for me. One was brownish, and had a scarred up nose. Seemed muscular too. I think the reason I remembered him most was because he was the biggest and scariest. So, yeah, I watched him closely. 'Surrender and you won't die,' hollered Layfe. 'Don't surrender and you will. You are all under arrest and will be tried justly. Then you will be offered between paying your bail or spending your time allotted in a cell.' We were all in phalanx formation. No gaps for them to escape through; and if they tried charging us they would've died on our spears. It was so easy… or so it seemed."

"'What if we promise to be good boys and girls from now,' came a mocking voice. A khajiit male of average stature and blonde fur was sitting on one of the crates. He wasn't very old, in fact, he was probably only in early adulthood. He was wearing his hair long, like, down to his shoulders; and he wore a pair of mismatching earings: a stud and a crescent shaped hoop. Also…" Whatever Sebastian was going to mention next he seemed scared to say it. Almost as if he was scared that everyone would discount him as soon as he did.

"We want to hear whatever it is you have to say," assured the general. Sebastian nodded.

"It may have been my imagination, or perhaps there was someone behind him that we didn't see, but it looked to me like his shadow was… disjointed or out of sync. Don't know how to say what it was exactly, but it seemed monstrous. Anyway, 'Will you let us go then?' he asked. Of course, Sergeant Layfe said no, but then this Khajiit with the long hair just shrugs and says something ridiculous. 'Sorry, but our schedule is too busy to spend in some jail cells, no matter how comfy they may be. We've got shipments to make and deadlines to meet. The world doesn't stop on a septim even though they do seem to run on them.' Then he hopped off the crate and opened his arms to challenge Layfe, or to mock him. 'I'm afraid you'll just have to kill me. Go ahead, you'll probably be doing me a favor considering how hectic my life has become. It would be nice to have some time to relax.' We all thought he was crazy. Had probably been sampling his own wares. But then a spike burst out of Samuel's throat and we all twisted around. There was a lot of shouting then. It's hard, even now to remember what happened in the all the chaos. I just remember that there were a lot of men behind us… and above us in the rafters shooting arrows. I do remember hearing Layfe shouting, 'Turtle! Everyone Turtle!' But the ranks broke. Blood got on me and I fell to the ground. Played dead. There was an extremely loud crash, and the sound of glass breaking and water pouring but I did not see from where because I had closed my eyes. Eventually, everything was quite. They were all dead at that point.' Sebastian looked at the ground. 'All dead.'

Faux shook his head. Things in the soldier's story failed to add up. He was beginning to wonder Sebastian was even telling the truth. "I can't believe this," he said. "If what Sebastian is saying is true, then that means these smugglers did nothing whatsoever to cover themselves up! They didn't even check to make sure everyone was dead! And they, supposedly, carried Sebastian all the way down to the beach without knowing he was faking it this entire time! Preposterous. Also, not all the soldiers are accounted for. There were nine soldiers and only eight are to be found, including Sebastian. Clearly, we can't say that they're all dead, can we?"

"Well, they didn't take us all down all down there," said Sebastian. Everyone's attention was now fixed on the soldier, including Dunarr. Sebastian gulped and shifted his eyes around the room as his hands gripped the side of the cot hard. "When all the soldiers were dead I can recall hearing somebody saying, 'Damn it, look at that mess.' And a second later I heard the Khajiit with the long hair saying, 'Don't go near him! Trust me, you don't want that on you.' And then that's it. Call me crazy, but I think that it was one of the soldier's was what he was referring to. The loud crash and glass breaking that I heard-it must've been a crate full that jar shit falling down.'

Ra' Zaumder scratched his chin with a ringed finger. "Have we any way of confirming this?"

"I can," noted Cargas. "As the Senchal guard were alerted to the bodies on the beach they made sure to let us know at once. I gave orders to section of the warehouse district and to have every possible piece of evidence marked down and to have everyone questioned. Most of the moon sugar, skooma pipes and everything else was already gone by the time we got there, but we did discover a large amount of crates had fallen over and were apparently left behind. Soon we discovered why, because the somebody tried to lift them they fell back with terrible burns on their hands. Those who were hurt are already at that Moon temple being healed."

"How long before we get to find out what was in those crates?"

The General sighed. "Well, we started before sunrise, but considering we can't touch the damn stuff I'd say it'll take us till five in the afternoon."

For most of the meeting Do' Næt had been quiet. Now he was standing mad, hands clenched as if he was about to punch someone. Finally, he snapped. "Are we all going to ignore what could be our best clue? Everyone heard Sebastian's description of that Khajiit. He sounds familiar, doesn't he? Don't tell me he doesn't."

"Sounds like Rid' Krin"

"We do not call him that!" said, Ra' Zaumder. "Call him Krin if you have too but too attache that honorific to such a horrid and undeserving criminal is an insult to the Mane. It's not a likely coincidence that he decided to show up with the arrival Rid-Shakfu so near at hand either. I think it would be a good idea to have the amount of patrols increased throughout the city. And there will be added security on Merchant's day to insure the Mane's safety. Commander?"

Faux stood at attention. "Yes?"

"Our nation has been very cooperative with the Empire so far. We've even taken up the Septim as our currency. But now it's time for them to give something back, and right now we could use some men Rid-Shakfu's side."

He knew what he had to say; what was expected of him. It was how politics were generally done. Nothing was done without recompense and Senchal had been giving a whole lot. To deny Ra' Zaumder now would be irresponsible. Faux took a deep breath. "When the Mane and his troop arrive we'll assign the troops needed to guarantee his protection. I'll oversee it myself that it gets done." The Khajiit nodded and twisted the ring on his finger. It went without saying that everyone was going to devote their resources their resources to catching these men before Merchant's day arrived, but until Faux was able to locate his son he'd only be able to give a fraction of his effort. He needed to leave this second. "Permission to leave?"

General Cargas clenched his jaw. "I think that's all we need to know for now. Sebastian should get some proper rest. Thank you, Sebastian. You've been very helpful." The lieutenant nodded his head and seemingly melted into his cot. All of his cuts and bruises were gone and the healer was now waiting patiently to leave. Everyone exited the shed and headed away. Faux made to the gate, along with Do' Næt and Ra' Zaumder. General Cargas went to his quarters to wright some important letters back to Cyrodiil.

"Where are you going now, if I may ask" Ra' Zaumder came up to Faux's left and walked alongside of him, his tarp fabric fluttering in the breeze. A thing that Faux noticed about the denizens of Senchall is that very little of them wore shoes or sandals. Even the rich seemed to walk around in bare feet, or paws. Ra' Zaumder was just like all the others in that regard, walking around on callused soles instead of wicker sandels.

"I'm going to Warehouse 3," said Faux, as they both walked down a hill. "I have to see everything for myself. And I have to-"

"To see what was in those crates? I understand. But before we part ways, Commander, I have something I feel is important to tell you." A small Khajiit child sat high up in a tree as they passed. He watched them curiously as a bird chirped at him angrily for being too close to nest. Ra' Zaumder pressed closer. "You can probably put the pieces together yourself, and probably have, but from what we learned today I think we may have situation on our hands. To many conveniences are happening at once and… with this latest event I have to believe that we both have traitors in our midst."

"If you think this then why didn't you bring it up before?"

The Khajiit scoffed. By now they had come halfway to the between the embassy and the wharves where the warehouses were and they had to stop because Ra' Zaumder's house was located in a completely different direction. "I'm almost certain that Do' Næt is himself. But I don't want to play that hand too soon if I must. The General though… I don't trust him, but I also don't believe he has anything to do Krin. He has a different agenda."

Enough was enough. Faux had to say something after a long night with no sleep and the most stressful mornings in living memory. He put up a hand and silenced the Khajiit. "That's enough," he said. "I don't care about your conspiracies or for this country for that matter. I do my job and usually that's enough. But General Cargas does not deserve to have his own men doubting him or some politician spreading lies behind his back. Now go home, and leave me alone." It was hart to tell what expression Ra' Zaumder was making, mostly because Faux didn't know how to read a cat's face, but he felt that he had said what needed to be said,; and so, without even looking back, Faux left the Khajiit behind and made his way to the warehouse.

It was just as Sebastian had described it, only now there were town militia standing guard everywhere. A bunch of Khajiit guards wearing leather armor with the town insignia on their chest pieces were blocking the entrance, but they let the Commander through once he told them his name and showed his papers. Inside the warehouse was quite different though. It was empty, mostly. All the crates of merchandise that Sebastian had mentioned were moved somewhere else, likely by the skooma smugglers. They left behind a huge mess though. Blood was everywhere. Most of it was seeped into the floorboards and dry, but there was still some wet spots where a lot had pooled. The body imprint where the soldiers fell were clearly visible, as well as a bunch of hand smudges. Faux was not interested in seeing that though.

He went to spot where a bunch of crates were currently being pushed apart by some guards using yard long wooden sticks. There was a steam rising of them and plenty of broken glass. Some jars that had not shattered open rolled across the floor. They were filled some milky substance.

"Almost got this one," grunted one the milita. He gave a hard shoved with his stick and a crate came loose. Faux stopped breathing. A hand appeared from under the debris: a hand wearing a metal glove. As more and more crates were shoved aside the rest became revealed, and more and more of Faux died. By the end there was a body. The armor looked like it had been smelted while it was still being worn and the body itself was unrecognizable. Where flesh was visible it seemed as if it had turned into candle wax and melted away. Bone was visible in several spots and it seemed as if the muscle was falling off from them.

"Gods be damned," said of the soldiers. It was now beyond Faux's ability to feel the world around him. Hope was a long forgotten term he had foolishly believed in. Led astray, he did the one thing still allotted to a mortal man when the god's abandoned him. Vow revenge.


	3. Chapter 3

**Tsandi-Daro**

"Don't… Minx, stop… "

After every performance Tsandi would climb into her bunk and crawl under the covers. For all intents and purposes she'd be dead to the world and no one could wake her, supposedly. Tiny fingers prodded her face relentlessly and now matter how she tried to shoo them away they always came back. "Stop it," she pleaded. They did not stop, and when the hand that tormented Tsandi began explore the inside of her ear she realized that they weren't going to until she got up.

"Agh! Minx!" She mashed her hand against her ear and sat up as quick as skeever after cheese. Minx, a black and white Nipon monkey grinned fiendishly at Tsandi from the bed spread. He was the theater troupe's _mascot_ , for lack of a better term; and although he was a cute furball, he was also the personification of evil. Tsandi was just about to pick up her pillow and smother the creature to death when she suddenly realized that there was someone else standing just a few feet away.

"Good morning," greeted Nelsie, a dark elf woman who designed most of the troupe's costumes. "Or should I say good evening?" The monkey hopped off Tsandi's bunk and clung to the sleeve of the dunmer. "You forgot to take of your costume again. Seriously, you need to remember to take off your costume and bring it back to me. There are no back ups, so if you stain or tear it up when you're not on stage I'll personally skin you and turn your hide into a rug."

It took a second for the grogginess of sleep to wear off, but when it did Tsandii realised that she was still wearing her costume from the afternoon show. The shawl made to look like leaves that Nelsie had worked so hard on was a tad ruffled, and the green sampot pants she had spent an entire week to weave was wrinkled.

"Whoops," said Tsandi. "I didn't know I had these on. Sorry. Give me a moment to change and you'll have it." The look that Nelsie gave her was a skeptical one. She crossed her arms and Minx climbed up to her shoulder.

"Yeah, okay. Just don't do it again or I promise I really will skin you." Tsandi laughed but then she saw the seriousness in Nelsie's eyes and the laughter petered out. The dunmer left without glancing back, but Minx watched Tsandi the whole way out and she could swear that he was grinning. After Nelsie closed the caravan door behind her, Tsandi began to undress, pulling the shawl up over her head. and throwing it on the ground. The caravan was a relatively small and cramped space with four beds and little to no privacy. This caravan, that Tsandi was in right now, was solely for the women of the theater troupe. Underneath the beds, in small compartments, the women kept all their clothing and belongings. Popping open the lid, Tsandi took out her out of work clothes: long brown leather pants, a cloth camisole, and a fresh pair of underwear. She cursed when she accidentally knocked over stack of books, but with a quick slip the sampot was off and in the pile. Her regular clothes felt so much more comfortable that she could feel a purr in her throat. Last thing on was her boots, which was starting to wear down after a year of use. _Maybe it's time to visit a cobbler?_

Nelsie was waiting just outside the caravan when Tsandi was finished.

She dropped the outfit in the Dunmer's arms.

"Well, there you go."

After checking the costume pants and shawl over to check if they weren't damaged beyond something a little wash and drying could solve, Nelsie folded them up. Tsandi couldn't help but notice that the vile and obnoxious monkey Minx has skedaddled, no longer being on the dark elf's person.

"All right, it's all good. You can go back to your bunk and sleep now."

After a big yawn, Tsandi went back inside with her tail nearly catching in the door. She was right by the bed, but when she saw it she stopped. Normally it would have been as inviting as buttercream cake in a vinegar and onion tasting festival. But she knew when she first got up that she wouldn't be able to go to sleep again. The only thing to do was sit and mope on the covers. "Alkosh save me," she sighed. Her ears twitched when the sound of feet approaching scuffed the wood of the caravan door. In came the only other Khajiit in the troupe, Shadya-La.

"Oh, so you're up?" She seemed surprised. Glancing at the knapsack hanging at her side it looked as if she was about to go out and explore. The bunk jilted a bit when she came to sit down next to Tsandi and from the corner of her eyes she could she Shadya fiddling with her earing. "Hey, I know you like to rest after as how, but I was thinking that instead you and me could go do something together. Anything to escape the boredom, right?"

Tsandi breathed deeply and blew a raspberry. She was definitely right. Some of the few perks of being a part of a traveling act was all the sights and cities one could experience. Why waste the opportunity?

"Okay," she said, getting up and stretching her arms. "But I've only ever been to Senchal once before, a long time ago. Don't really remember what there is to do."

Shadya was quick to stand, eagerness taking a hold of her. She grabbed Tsandi's arm and spoke a thousand words a minute. "There's so many places that we could go! Last time I was here there was alchemy shop that would sell potions that could change a person's skin color, an incense shop with the best smelling candles I've ever wiffed, a book store that sold some very raunchy material, and I haven't even gotten started on the major tourist attractions…" It was easy for Tsandi to forget how distant Shadya was when she first joined. Even as the young Khajiit was describing the large paintings of Seccunda and Masser in the moon temple Tsandi was recalling that very first audition, and how Shadya performed while wearing what could best be described as rags. It wasn't pity that got her a part in their little family, at least, that's what Fweet said. She had heart, and gave it her all. And most importantly of all, she was an amazing actor, both on stage and off.

Shadya was still talking about the many things the two of them could do when Tsandi broke out of her thought. They were several yards off from the camp when when they both heard a call.

"Hey, where are you guys going?" Fweet the dark elf was coming over to them, an expression of impatience written all over his face and a look that said, _I'm going to kill all your happiness and joy then put all your tears in a mug and drink it._ "We're not done for the day. We still need to practice."

"What?" Shadya crossed her arms and stared at Fweet as if he was ripping out his own throat. "But… why? Rehearsals are done when we premiere. There's nothing left to improve upon. Rehearsing at this point is just a waste of time."

Shaking his head, Fweet went up between the girls and puts his arms around their shoulder and held them uncomfortably close for an eternity of a second. "Maybe that's how it worked with the old boss, but I'm not the same as him."

"It was a she," Tsandi corrected.

"Regardless of the gender of your previous boss, I'm the boss now; and I'm a man. That doesn't have much to do with anything, but I felt that you should know for whoever your future boss is. Okay?" He looked at both of them for confirmation. Tsandi grimaced and tried to avoid giving him the satisfaction of acknowledgement. "Well, back on topic. I expect a lot from you two. Wait, no! Not just you two, but the entire troupe. You all have the ability to transcend the limits of your own class, but only if we practice, practice, practice! Understand?" At long last he took his arms off of them and backed up a few steps. It was hard to describe the relief, but Tsandi likened the feeling breathing clean air after being inside a smoker's shack for an hour.

When the three of them got they found that only two others were out there ready. Yar the orc was there, obviously. It would have been ridiculous to even consider rehearsing without the steady beat of his drums. Besides him though, only Clinton was a show. He looked about as bored as anyone else as he sat on a nearby rock, reading his hard bound book. Fweet was beside himself when he realized the others were missing.

"Where's Nelsie and Greta, guys?" Everyone was despondent to the question. After glancing around and getting nothing but blank stares, Fweet threw up his hands in a fit. "Come on! You're all acting like you don't want to be here! Can't you see the opportunity in front of us?" More silence. "We could be famous! I mean, more famous. Merchant's Day is just a couple days off and The Mane is coming to Senchal. If he sees our show and really, really likes it there's a good chance that we'll be asked to perform for him and whole bunch of extremely important folks at the Blue Kemchal Palace."

It was a stretch at best. Everyone knew it. His _idea_ depended on numerous independent factors such as entertainment not already having been booked, or whether the Mane just so happens to come by the Moon Temple and seeing their performance.

"Okay, you know what? Forget those guys. We'll just do the scenes they're not in first and when they get back we'll do theirs." There was a well rehearsed groan of despair from all the actors, a testament to what they could do through repetition. Clinton snapped his book shut and tapped the cover quizzically.

"More practice?" he poised. "Okay. What needs to be improved? Cause I don't think we could get any better than we are right now."

"I wouldn't say that." said Fweet, rolling his eyes and clapping his hands together. "You guys are all awesome, in large part thanks to me, but also all of your efforts; but there are just a few things we can do better. For example, the timing on all of your lines are timed just right. There's no room for any improvisation! The best actors use improv. So… there." It might have been the single most stupid thing any of them had ever heard. Clinton raised an alarmed eyebrow when Fweet had finished talking. His thoughts were on Tsandi's mind, and likely everybody elses. _Since when did anyone ever encourage their actors to screw up on their lines?! Are you thick?!_ Fweet just stood there with a smug expression on his dark elf face, oblivious to the judgemental stares. The tension was getting too thick. Tsandi had to break the silence.

"Wow, Fweet. You're… you're right." The stares all transferred to her. Shadya seemed as if she was looking at Tsandi for the first time. Ignoring them, Tsandi waltzed over to Fweet and placed a fond hand on his shoulder. "We _can_ do better. It's just, all our previous bosses forced us to practice over and over again until we were exhausted. None of them cared about us as individuals before, or believed in us." Trying to work up some crocodile tears, Tsandi began to bring the cheesiness factor up to eleven. "The way you encourage us, and just _believe_ in us has kept us motivated. It's been what kept us all going."

It was hard to tell whose expression was richer, Fweet's or Yar. Fweet looked so touched he was on the verge of tearing up. Yar was giving her the death stare. Voice a quiver, Fweet tried to speak, but was cut by Tsandi.

"You're not just our boss. You're a dear friend to every single one of us. And just you saying we can do this would help us, and me, more than any amount rehearsals."

The deed was done. Fweet had a glow and a stance that spake of his own caressed ego. Shadya and Clinton had garnered what Tsandi was attempting by the time she was done and helped by putting on their most insincere smiles. Like a fly to a fly trap, Fweet was suckered in to the false praise. He waved and chuckled.

"Woot! Go Fweet!" hollered Clinton.

"Thanks guys. It means a lot that you all think so much of me and I'm going to make sure that you're feelings toward me are… deserved. I don't think we need to, um, go down that path of rehearsing all the time if what you're saying is the case. Like you all said, we're perfect and we just need to believe in ourselves."

That was all it took for everyone to skedaddle as fast as they could of there. Clinton found out that Shadya and Tsandi were going out on the town and asked if he could come. Shadya shook her head, but Tsandi insisted saying, "Clinton is the life of any room he walks into."

"It's true," he laughed. "I literally caused three taverns to break into song. Not at the same time, but individual bars over the space of several years." Everything seemed like it was building up to be a great night. Only one thing could ruin this for Tsandi.

"Hey, paleos." Fweet came over with his thumb in his pockets. The group grimaced. "Can I come with?"

"Uhm…" stammered Tsandi.

"Oh, I get it." said Fweet knowingly. "I'm a like a father to you guys, right? It's okay. Don't worry. You can all let loose when I'm around."

It was impossible to decline after the narrative that Tsandi worked up, and something told her that if they told Fweet the truth about how they truly feltl about him, he'd be more than a little upset. So they found themselves going down to _Gobstopper's Tavern_ as a group of five rather than the originally intended three. Yar had insisted on coming along when he overheard that Fweet was going. He clung like a leech to his side, even when Fweet tried to drop some hints that he needed some space he only moved a few inches.

 _Gobstopper's_ wasn't very far from the temple district from where the troupe's caravans and show were hosted. In fact, it would only take a short jaunt through a quarter to reach the destination. The problem was, the quarter was throughout Elsweyr as the most dangerous squalor in the country. It was called _The Black Keirgo_ , and even from the outset Tsandi could catch a glimpse of why it was so infamous. As the group passed by what only an optimist would call a hovel, Tsandi saw filth in the street gutters; the waste of every skooma tweaker and wretch just tossed on the ground. Every building seemed to be condemned. Perhaps at one point these buildings where shops or people's houses, but now the wood on all of them were rotted and/or warped by heat and time. Doors would off their hinges if they were seen at all; and the denizens that walked like ghosts through the streets looked deathly sick. Most of them were khajiit, but their furs were patchy and pale. A woman leaning on a windowsill stared at them as they went by and her eyes were bloodshot and her claws were falling off her fingers. What was worst though were the ones who were not Khajiit. They at least had some natural immunity to the drug. Bretons, Nords, Elves, and Argonians did not have even that. They were hooked; dependant both psychologically and physically on Skooma. Their bones were so well outlined it was like watching skeletons walk around. It was well known that some of these abandoned buildings homed skooma squatters, people who would stayed in these dark, rodent infested buildings and just smoke skooma or drink it until they ran out and have to get more, or died.

"Let's go around," suggested Clinton. Sure, they wouldn't get to drink themselves into a stupor as soon, but they'd still have their lives by the end of the night.

Go around _The Black Keirgo_ passed them through the _Jahding_ quarter. It was where the more downtrodden lived. Mostly in shacks, the people here typically worked for other large business for low wages. These were fishermen, miners, and farm workers. The fishermen were the luckier ones, since their work places was so near at hand what with three docks ringing around Senchal. Those that were miners and farmers usually had to work out in the country, and the ones squatting in the huts were the family they sent the money too. "What does Jahding mean?" asked Clinton.

Shadya was the first to answer. She tutted and looked mournfully at a raggedy Khajjit mother with a baby strapped to her back as she pinned her children's clothes on a clothesline. "Jahding means diamond. It's a sick joke placed on it by the corrupt politicians and big business owners who have enough wealth to by fish everything but don't."

"Woah, hey," said Tsandi, putting her hands up like a barrier. "I get not liking sleazy people in power, but this isn't the right night for guilt trips and political talks. Happy thoughts, okay? Just think happy thoughts until we we to the tavern. Then the alcohol will make the happy for us."

Fweet sighed and shook his head. "It's so typical of Kahjiit. Even their representatives steal from the poor."

"I completely agree," said Yar.

Shadya and Tsandi stared at them, and even Clinton was self-aware enough to be wide-eyed after hearing Fweet's comment.

It was silent after that.

The tavern wasn't too busy when they arrived. Tsandi had one saying though, where there was a bar there was always at least one nord, and tonight proved her right once again. Besides the old man running a wet rag over the wooden counter top there sat a Nord with rosy cheeks chugging down a mug of mead.

"A group, eh?" noticed the old man. His greying beard was tied up in a knot and his whiskers grown until they fell like weeping tree limbs. "Not many usually come in before Merchant's day except for a few regulars. Usually they save up and binge when everything is cheaper."

"Not us," said Fweet, strutting up to the counter. "I'm treating my family tonight and I want them to have all they want. So how much is a round for five?" The barkeep told him and his eyes widened. "Yikes, nevermind. Guys, you're all paying for your own drinks. Okay?"

Everyone reached into their pockets and pulled out their septims. The barkeep reached under the counter and pulled out five mugs one by one. Behind him was a large barrel with a tap and he filled the mug's up to the brim with amber brew that foamed over the sides. When Tsandi took her first chug her tastebuds were awash with the fruity tinge. Fweet smacked his lips and looked down into his cup. "This stuff is pretty sweet. Barkeep, get me some food to go with this. This is just way to sweet without something else to go with it."

The old man tugged at his beard and hollered to his wife sitting in the far back of the tavern by the spit. A layer of hot coals lay under it with the woman stirring a brew bubbling in a cast iron pot. At her husband's request she picked up a ladel and a bowl and filled it with a serving.

"What is it?" asked Yar, seeing the bowl being handed to Fweet. The contents seemed chunky and covered in a yellow curry. Fweet simply brought the bowl to his mouth and grabbed a mouthful before swallowing. He frowned. "Gah, this is sweet too."

"Yeah, that's the typical Elsweyr flavor," pointed out Tsandi. "Khajiit like their food and drink sweet. Moon sugar is actually one the primary ingredients in a lot of these dishes. This is called khish, and it's the meat that is sweet because it's cooked with honeymead. The curry is actually very bland but the spice it provides is much needed."

Clinton smiled into his mug as he watched Fweet make a sour face. The alcohol felt like warm embers spreading down Tsandi's nerve fibers. The dark elf discarded the bowl to the side and she was more than happy to take the rest. The mood was starting to pick up as they became happily drunk and the smell spit wafted through the tavern air. Clinton made friends with the nord as he told joke after joke.

"My favorite play is probably The Horror of Castle Xyr," he said with belch. "Not because I actually like the characters or the story, but because of what happened during one of its runs. I was with a different troupe and there was this complete asshole who was also one of the main characters. Anyway, halfway through the show one the audience members gets violent and we have to cancel the rest. My fondest memory is of that jerk running away from that knife-wielding maniac. The guards didn't do anything because they thought it was part of the play. Amazing."

Fweet was trying to interject himself between them, always awkwardly and off subject. Yar, the orc, simply sat in a bar stool and stared at them. It was very creepy with the way he said nothing. The girls decided to find somewhere with a view. Luckily, the tavern had a wooden staircase that led to a second floor patio. From there they could see over the tiled rooftops of Senchal all the way to the docks where ship sails gathered like clouds.

"First time I've ever been this close to the Topal Sea," said Tsandi, taking another swig of her half empty cup. "Some of these buildings our on stilts. Is there a reason or is it a cosmetic choice?"

Shadya shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not an architect, but it's probably so floods and hurricanes don't ruin their property or something." Tsandi nodded. The view was like a painting. Masser and Secunda where bright that night and the horizon was crimson from the setting sun. She saw the sections of the city from the rooftops like multicolored building blocks, all the social classes organized into their little districts.

Smiling, Tsandi looked at Shadya and noticed that she wasn't. Her ears were folded against her head and her tail was still, and melancholic look of nostalgia permeated her face.

"I'm going to be leaving the troupe when this production is over," she said, staring at the crimson sea. "Hopefully you won't hate me when I do."

"Why would I hate you?" asked Tsandi. "Sure, I'll miss you. You're the only girl that I felt like I could really talk with for years, but if you want to pursue opportunities elsewhere then…" She took a swig and then belched as loud and obnoxiously as she could. Shadya cracked a smile. "I can only wish you good luck."

The rest of the night was a blurry haze of singing and telling jokes. Clinton started the song and then the nord and barkeep joined in, apparently having heard it before, and eventually everyone was involved even if they only knew a few broken bits. It wasn't the smartest idea to get drunk the night before a performance, but for a while common sensibilities didn't matter so much. Shadya didn't tell anyone else about her leaving while they were together, so for all Tsandi knew she was the only one Shadya had shared that with. Later, when they all went back to their caravans; thankfully they still had enough wits about them to go back he way they came; Tsandi imagined what it would be like when Shadya was no longer with them. And then she realised, perhaps she was the lucky one. Tsandi had been apart of the troupe for long and had seen so many members come and go. Only her and Clinton were around when the original team was together. As she covered herself with sheets and rested her head on the cushion she wondered if she'd be apart of this for the rest of her life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Jack Kreacher**

A geode crystal was a mesmerizing wonder of the natural world. Kreacher had a habit of holding them against the light in such a way that the light fractured, like a prism splitting a full rainbow spectrum. Only there was something different about it when done with a geode containing a soul. The saturation of colors shifted and stacked and then unstacked, a constant fluctuation. Kreacher stood over his basement work table and held the geode in front of the lantern as his face was painted with light. He gazed at the gem with a fascination that was unfaded after years of familiarity. _What a pity that after the soul is expensed the gem itself shatters into tiny useless fragments. If only they were like my vials, to be used again and again and only needed to be sterilized when used._

It certainly would save a fortune if that was the case. He looked down and away from the gem and down at the dead siamese cat and brushed a finger sadly across the stitches he put in above the feline's liver. She had ingested eggs and raw meat consistently for months and the inevitable eventually happened. The family had said that she had been slow and quiet for the last few days and this morning she was still but breathing shallow. Kreacher was just about to touch the gem to the cat's forehead but hesitated right before contact.

"You know the family will probably just continue to treat their cat badly, right? It's a waste of a perfectly good soul."

"That's a good point," said Kreacher, looking at the stiff figure of Mittens the taxidermied ginger cat. He was forever stuck in the one sitting pose, just staring with his amber eyes at whatever he was placed in front of. Which, in this instance, was a detailed chart of the human anatomy Kreacher had picked up for cheap in an open-air market now decorating a small part of his basement wall. After Lareal had forced him to take Mittens down from the noose there was no other real place to put him, but Kreacher was performance shy so he made sure to turn the undead cat to face the wall. "But isn't all life just borrowed time? What difference does it make if this soul gets to live for a week or a life time? It'll be more time it got to spend alive than it would have otherwise."

"You're just making excuses because you need the money. Know what? You'd probably make a lot more money if you were actually good at healing instead of just killing them."

"I'm not taking this from a brain dead animal," retorted Kreacher. A glow filled the basement as he touched the gem to the siamese forehead. After a brief scuffle with the alarmed feline he managed to grab it in such a way that he had a grip on all its limbs.

"Oh, wow. That's not good." said Mittens.

Kreacher didn't have the time to bother with the musings of a dead cat. He was too busy dealing with a live cat to let Mittens comments get to him. Upstairs, after walking awkwardly up the rickety steps, he met with the cat's family: a breton mother and her daughter. The mother was a young adult with crow's feet already forming around her eyes. Her daughter was chewing on her finger tips and whimpering in a chair by the front door. When she saw Kreacher come out of the basement with her pet frantically trying to escape his arms she gasped and run up to him.

"Nasha!"

Gladly, Kreacher handed the cat over to the girl. Already he was developing a rash on his face where the siamese had scratched him. The diagonal cuts on his left cheek getting raw and agitated.

Interestingly, the cat known as Nasha was licking the girl's face as she wept and held her. As far as Jack Kreacher knew cats didn't lick anything besides their privates. The little girl didn't care though, she clenched her cat as tight as banker grips his purse.

"Thank you," said the mother. She came up to Kreacher and gave him a bear hug. "You have no idea how much Nasha means to my little girl."

"That's okay," said Kreacher, patting the mother on the back. "But if you really want to show your appreciation I'd suggest not feeding your cat scraps from the table. Keep it up and I'll be sure to see you again." With a few waves, well wishes, and goodbyes both the girl and mother were eventually making their way out the door. Before it closed Kreacher could've sworn that the siamese let out a high pitched bark. It gave cause for him to pause. Then he reluctantly shut the door and went to the kitchen. A fit of sneezing racked through his body before he got to the water pump and washed as much of the dander off his arms and face as possible. He took of his gloves and rolled up his sleeves, throwing them down to the floorboards. That was one of the perks of this building, an indoor water pump. Not many houses, even those in the high risers, had direct access to a water well they could use whenever they felt like it. Not even the previous owners knew there was a free supply of clean water just a dig away from under their structure. It was Lareal who found out there was an aquifer, and after digging through the foundation and chipping away at the surprisingly very porous stone covering the natural water, he bought a bunch of pipes and set up the manual pump. _Very impressive for a man with a gimpy leg._

He winced as he placed a wet rag against his cut. After a few dabs he ringed it and watched the water go down the floor drain. Then Kreacher left the kitchen; went to his desk and took the fragrant bottle out of the drawer before pocketing it.

It was time. Kreacher got the closed sign and hung it on the front door. _Lareal Inventors & Kreacher's Petnasium _still dangled from its post like it had the day before and would hopefully stay that way for a long time. A night of being along with his thoughts had nearly driven Kreacher to the brink. Shadya had driven up the rent. He needed to know why and/or convince her to change her mind. Luckily, he knew that one of her other tenants had gone out of business and that an auction was being held to pay back as much debt as possible. Earlier, when Kreacher had suggested going there to confront Shadya, Lareal had outright refused, saying, "The best thing you could do is your job. Just stay at the shop and take as much of our client's septims as possible." Well, Kreacher had tried. He had lasted for about an hour after Lareal had gone out job searching and it just about drove him mad.

Memory was a fickle thing for Kreacher. He had enough difficulties trying to remember most people's names, and directions were even worse. There were precisely twenty three shops, five storage facilities, and six houses in the merchant's district. As far as Kreacher was concerned though there was only one-his. Anyone who asked him for directions generally regretted it. Sightseers and shoppers seemed to be in the minority this particular day though. On every street corner there was at least one city militia guard; their tough leather armor masking their physical traits. Kreacher never did like their particular _style_. Guards in Senchal wore helmets that hid their features behind a fierce tiger, and it made him feel uneasy. It reminded him of the tribunal warriors of Morrowind and their expressionless faces. _Perhaps that's the point. To put everyone at ease and make them seem more powerful than they actually are._

As Kreacher came up on a street corner he noticed two guards speaking to each other next empty stall. One was leaning against a wall and the other was standing with his hand lazily gripping the hilt of his scimitar. Both spoke in an open manner; without fear of eavesdroppers listening in. It was poor of them do to do, because after spending so much time cooped up in his workshop Kreacher was eager to catch up with local affairs. He slowed his pace, but made sure to keep his gaze ahead and appear nonchalant. Slowly, as he got closer, he was able to clue into the conversation.

"-is it true?"

"Yeah. Some inspired skooma traffickers thought it wise to slaughter a bunch of imperial soldiers."

"But why?"

"Got no clue. If anything the Empire is just going to come down even harder on them. They're not going to let something like this go on unpunished. There's going to be retaliation, and we're all going to suffer for it."

"Is it also true that Krin is in the city?"

"Looks that way. Just a couple of days ago we got an orc who killed two guards; said he was looking for Krin and his search led him hear. Maybe it's true. I don't know. But the last thing we need is-"

Nothing interested Kreacher less than politics. He left the guards behind and quickly forgot everything he had heard. Eventually he found himself outside what appeared to be the shop he was looking for. It seemed familiar. There were wooden figure of a obscenely fat Khajiit with a long mane smiling knowingly on the right side of the doorway. For the life of him though, Kreacher just couldn't recall where he had seen it before. The sign hanging on it's post was covered with a poster with the words _Foreclosure Auction_ on it in bold black letters.

Coming in and out of the shop were a mish mosh of people, most of them Khajiit in silk and sashes. Some were dressed casually, bargain hunters searching for items nobody would miss and coming out with a bag full of silverware. As Kreacher stepped inside he was greeted by a high elf woman, a guard standing next to her with steel plate armor and sword as thick as a tree trunk. "Another vulture?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or are you one of those church freaks? Actually, nevermind. It doesn't matter. Just remember to obey the rules: don't steal, don't fight, and don't break anything. Do any of those and Gersbach here will cut you in half." The guard in the armor stared at Kreacher through the eye slit in his helm. Kreacher had the feeling Gersbach could and would carry through with that threat with glee.

"Uhm, actually… I'd prefer it if you could point out to me where Shadya is if you could. She's here, right?"

The High Elf rolled her eyes and crossed her wispy arms. Gersbach chortled. His chest plate shook from the vibrations.

"Do I look like I care?"

Kreacher grimaced. A headache was in the works already so he decided to not answer what was probably a rhetorical question in the first place. She didn't seem to care much as he was walking away so he took that as a positive sign. Inside the shop was just one big room with shelves and a staircase leading to a second floor. Plenty of people were sliding along the walls, checking the price of the merchandise. At the counter was Shadya, speaking quietly to a casually dressed breton man with greasy hair. He had an incense candle on the countertop and was engaging the woman in some playful bargaining. Too bad Shadya wasn't having any of it.

"How does one septim sound?"

"Ten is as low I'll go."

"What about three?"

"Ten."

"Five?"

He eventually managed to work the price down to nine but it probably took more effort than it was worth. Shadya gathered the coins in a sack and placed it below counter. When she came back up and saw Kreacher leaning in with a salesman's grin her eyes twitched. Looking for an opener to the conversation Kreacher decided it best to begin with a simple observation.

"So Shadya, I see you've-"

"Jack, what are you doing here?" asked the irritated landlord. The wind was taken out of Kreacher's sails before he could even begin. "I can't talk with you right now. I'm too busy. I'm- Oh hello!"

Another person, a Khajiit male, approached Shadya with a silver necklace with a floral engraving. While he and Shadya discussed the price Kreacher took the moment to examine the shop itself. He wandered over to shelfs full of antiques, glancing back every few seconds. There were a few inscrutable items, such as severed animal limbs available in either pickled green jars, or mummified braids. Kreacher felt compelled to smell them both. Picking up one of the more crinkly digits, he checked his periphery for inquisitive onlookers before taking a whiff. It was surprisingly pleasant, and it tempted Kreacher to give it a small lick across the knuckle. He recoiled instantly. The finger tasted like vinegar and cough medicine that was left to ferment for fifty years before someone pissed on it. He put it back in a hurry. Shadya was still conversing with the gentlemen when he looked back so he continued wandering about the store bumping into others and putting his prints on everything that did not belong to him. There was a part of the floor that was concave and it annoyed Kreacher whenever he walked into it to the point where he tried to map out the ground just to avoid it. A small leather sack was the next item to grab his attention. It was settled in an open drawer and, as he picked it up, the contents jingled. He turned it around in his hands and saw the words _Lucky Coins_ stitched on it in golden thread with lots of fancy flowers embroidered around the trim.

"What kind of shop is this?" asked Kreacher.

"The best kind around."

If there was ever as silly a design as a person would ever have emblazoned on their apparel, it was the man standing next to Kreacher at that very moment. He was a non-native as far as Kreacher could guess: a dunmer with Ashland tattoos on his face and shaved head, but then again Kreacher could recall a time when he offended a Nord who had lived in Vvardenfell his whole life. A broken nose tended to stick with folks long after it's been healed.

The Dunmer's hazel robe had a unicorn crudely finger-painted on the front. _I'm no consensuar of art but I have a feeling I could do better than that and I can't even draw a straight line._ Kreacher smiled and nodded. "Oh? But why is that?"

"Well, you see," began the dunmer. His eyes twinkled as he stared ravenously at the pouch. "This shop here sells, or at once did anyway, lucky gems and charms. Every single product bends fate's favor to the holders wants and needs. It is by far the most valuable item one can acquire. I honestly can't believe that the shopkeep wanted to sell any of it."

Kreacher scoffed and opened the pouch. He drew a bronze coin from it and observed it from every angle. "There's a nine on both sides," the dunmer pointed out. "That means that just by holding that coin your luck is up by nine attributes."

"Oh, really?" asked Kreacher, no longer paying attention. He looked back at the counter. Shadya was no longer there. Wide eyed, he dropped the pouch and ran for the door. The sound of the demented Dark Elf scavenging the coins rolling on the floor carried all the way out in the street where Kreacher ran into someone he very much did no want to see again.

Oridir blinked in surprise as he was nearly knocked over by Kreacher on the steps. "Is that who I think it is?" queried the wood elf. Being this close up to the old man, Kreacher could count the wrinkles on his brow.

"No, it isn't." he replied, trying to get past the Oridir. Unlucky was the fact that this particular place of business was the only shop that had railings on their stairs, and the wood elf made up for width what he lacked in height. "Do you mind if I scooch on by? Just… just let me slide right through please." Kreacher looked out on to the street and couldn't see any hair, ear, or tail of Shadya among the windows and cobbled streets. The thought came up to him quite suddenly that perhaps he had simply missed her and that she might still be inside. After all, who was attending the counter? So just as he was about to traut back inside the building Oridir said something that made him doubleback.

"I just wanted to say something about what said earlier, Kreacher. My words don't always come out the way I mean them to and I… I hope that you don't think I'm an ass." With the heat bearing down on him Oridir took of his turban and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. "I meant to come by yours and Lareal's place earlier but… I've just been so busy and time has a habit of flying by when you get to my age."

An apology from the wealthy aristocrat was the last thing that Kreacher had expected. It genuinely touched his heart. "Thank you, and… apology accepted," said Kreacher, giving the wood elf a pat on the shoulder. It was almost like talking down to a child. "I'd love and stay and chat, Oridir, but I have to see Shadya really quick, okay?"

Oridir waved his hand dismissively. "Alright, alright. But when you see her, ask her when I can start renovating your shop. I've got a few contractors waiting to refurbish the building."

Kreacher blanked. Did he hear right? He cleaned out his ears and bent down so his ears were level with the Bosmer's face.

"Uhm, what?"

"Ask Shadya to give me the date so I can bring in the boys to refurbish the shop," clarified the wood elf.

Nodding, Kreacher stood back up and walked into the store. He could remember why the place seemed so familiar. That statue up front was the same statue that greeted him when he and Lareal had first moved into Senchal a year ago. Back then it was chocolate shop. It wasn't particularly great as the chocolate was quite bitter, but it was a great place to stop every once in awhile to in order to take the load off and converse with social seekers. Eventually, the place closed down for whatever reason and Kreacher had just never given much thought to coming around again. That wooden statue was actually carved from a tree that sprouted from out of the cracks, and completely unable to be budged unless someone cared enough to uproot it. _Then someone came and turn this place into a trumped up pawn shop; and now who knows what it will be. Probably just another septim in Oridir's purse._ Shadya was back behind at the counter with a small safe on top, counting the earnings so far with an attentive finger.

"Why are you doing this to me?!" demanded Kreacher just about slamming his balled fists into the wood. Shadya's ears shot up and she glanced up at Kreacher with a chastising eye. "I know you don't like me, but I've always paid my rent on time. But because some walking talking money bags waves his coin around you decide to fleece me and my friend? It can't be legal! You can't treat your tenants this way and not expect me to do something about it."

Shadya sighed and pinched the crevice of her brow. Kreacher sneezed and took another wiff of his herbal blend to relax his nasal cavities. After five seconds of utter silence between the two Shadya leaned across the counter, much as Kreacher did when he first got here, and cast a glare so intimidating that Kreacher gulped.

"First of all, I have every right to raise rent. Estate prices have inflated in the last month and I would be a complete _thiz_ if I didn't adjust appropriately. Secondly, I could've thrown you _and_ your friend out anytime I wanted to considering the fact you two dug a hole through the foundation which is completely against Elsweryrn bylaws. And thirdly," She grabbed Kreacher by the shoulder and pulled him in so their faces were inches apart. He could count the spots on her Khajiit cheeks. For a brief moment Kreacher considered how often he was pulled close to someone and why he had formed the habit of counting blemishes or unusual features. "Whether or not you can appreciate it I'm doing you both a favor. I've only known you for less than a year, and quite frankly, you're both some of the most talented young men I've ever seen… and the most driven. But you keep sabotaging yourselves just so you can keep playing acting like children and never ever have to part. When I was your age I had already moved away from my friends and family so I could get an education, and then I made new friends."

After that brief speech Shadya let go of Kreacher. He groaned as he massaged his bruised shoulder. He forgot that his landlord had at one point been a part of the military, but his memory was jogged when her grip nearly snapped his collarbone.

"I like to think we added value when we tapped into that water well," Kreacher added.

Shadya shook her hood disappointedly and went back to counting her septims. "You're a freak. You're a pale, egotistical freak who makes everyone uncomfortable just by being around. Just get out unless you're planning on buying something."

Leaving quitely, Kreacher nearly stumbled after walking into the warped section of the floor again. Oridir was sitting on the steps and waved at his passing by. Kreacher chose to ignore him. He ran plan over plan as he walked all the way back home. Those walking by either went around or collided with him as he was to focused on his thoughts. He came to a decision by the time he made it home. Almost every decision he had made in his life, from his career to the locale, was made out of spite for the thoughts and opinions of others. His parents had wanted him to become a grand magician when a sorcerer came to his village and revealed his extraordinary capability with magic. Instead, he chose to be a healer. They were so disappointed with their son that they didn't even acknowledge his existence for a whole year, and it was in that time that he and Lareal met and developed their friendship. Everything had worked out well so far, so Kreacher saw no need to change the course.

A couple birds with blue wings fluttered off the sign post when Kreacher made it back home. He opened the front door and took the closed sign down before going inside and falling down on the floor, tired and emotionally drained. He heard the thumping of a cane coming from the room on his right. It could only have been one person.

"Good news," said Lareal, gazing down at his grounded friend. "I went over to the local printing press to see if there were any job offers listed in the paper. There was. The Imperial Legion needed someone to examine a crime scene with a lot of experience in sciences. So I went to their base and they interviewed me. They gave me the job after just a only a few questions and they weren't even that difficult."

"Hurray," groaned Kreacher into the floorboards.


	5. Chapter 5

**Faux**

The ceremony was carried out on the harbor. All eight of the dead soldiers were washed beforehand by the disciples of Arkay, who dipped rags in cold basins and cleaned the flesh by hand. They also drained the corpses of all their blood and closed the wounds as best they could. It was the best the could do, but there was little they could do for Theo, whose body was so deteriorated that they chose instead to cover his features.

Side by side, the soldiers were laid in a boat ladened with timber, hay, and oil. It was tradition to lay an imperial soldier to rest with his armor and sword in hand, but Cargas said that it would be a waste and instead they were dressed in their cotton uniforms with the crest of the Empire stitched onto their chests; and in the case of Theonidus there wasn't any armor left to strip away, so they covered him in a black veil. Faux could see his depressed features through the cloth, teasing him, as if he need only lift the fabric and his son would be whole again. It was bad enough that he had to die in another country, but… the fact that the body wouldn't even be buried under the virtuous shadow of the White-Gold Tower, in his mother country, was appalling. At least the day was bright and beautiful, with clear blue sky and topaz waters. It was almost pleasant enough out to forget that all the soldiers gathered on the beach were there because General Cargas had made attendance mandatory. "Knowing that their lives are valued is good for moral," he had said, while stamping his seal on a folded envelope to the Aldmeri Dominion. He added it to the column of letters stacked on his desk.

Faux had to write his own letter too. His wife and daughter had the right to know what became of Theo. It took him an hour to decide on how to word it, and the crumbled papers piled up. When he finally decided on what to say his quill snapped and stained the sleeve of his shirt. After acquiring a new quill from Cargas, who apparently kept backups, he finally finished his letter. When the ink dried he lifted the paper with his shaking hand and read it outloud to himself.

 _Dear Allexus and Julia,_

 _Theonidus is dead. He was murdered by a skooma peddling rat, named Krin. Don't worry, he died nobly and felt nothing. I'm sure of this. Krin won't escape justice as long as I breath. Even if I have to track him all across Tamriel, fight monsters and demons, or compromise my own morals, I will track him. And I will make him pay. I know it won't give us Theo back, but this will, at least, let him rest in peace._

 _General Cargas gives his regards. I know what you think of him, Allexus, but please, do not worry. A lot of of my men have come up to me to offer support while off we know they have their hearts set on helping us. It's only a matter of time till we catch Krin and put an end to his Skoom trafficking. With the help of the Empire._

 _Your loving Father,_

 _Faux_

Hopefully it was good enough. Faux had conflicted feelings concerning lying about the details of Theo's death, but ultimately he decided it would make it easier for Allexus and Julia. _They're strong… but it would be cruel to tell them. Perhaps after I find Krin, I'll go home to Cyrodil and say more. But for now I'll carry this burden on my own shoulders._ After folding the paper and sealing it with the wax crest of the Empire he took the letter to the courier wagon and payed the driver twenty septims. It would be Last Seed by the time it reached Faux's family back home. He hoped that he'd be able to write good news by then.

He remembered watching the courier wagons roll away, making tracks in the dirt. The gates shut themselves, and sealed him in. Back in the present, Faux watched from the wayside as two privates stacked the corpses in the boat. Or perhaps it was more of a barge? They grunted as they grabbed them by the head and feet, slowly shuffling onto the boat itself and laying them down side by side. General Cargas watched, fixated on the troops posture and attention. He paced the parameter, correcting them if their shoulders were slumpt or their eyes wandering. "Show these men the same respect you'd want if this your own funeral," he said, while the two soldier's loading them in the boat tossed the last carcass in. An archer with stood at the side with his long bow which was just about as tall as him. His arrow was covered around the head with an oil soaked cloth, ready to be lit aflame by the brazier Faux had stuck in the beach bed.

"Alright," said Cargas. "Now that that's been taken care of, let's all say a few wards for our fallen comrades. Faux, would you care to begin?"

"Yes, I would. Thank you, General." Faux stepped forward and looked at rows of men before him. It was a sea of indifference. Perhaps one or two showed some amount of emotion in their expressions, such as Sebastian, who was placed in the front row; but most of them might as well have been mannequins.

Seagulls drifted above their waterside funeral as Faux began. "As soldiers of the Empire we are expected to put ourselves in danger so that others may live in peace. It is expected of us. Still, it doesn't death any easier to is little comfort to be had. My Son, and all those by his side, died alone… " The archer leaned on his bow, impatiently tapping his arrow against the side of the barge. General Cargas looked as indifferent as ever, but at least he gave his undivided attention. "Let it not discourage us though. Their dead's cast silhouettes that will forever affect those they have devoted their lives to protecting. This drug war that the council has us fighting has been long and bitter, like a winter without sun. This latest incursion can mean only one thing though! They are desperate, and are striking out in anyway they can! They are ravenous dogs that we must put down. We owe it to these men to do so. It's them or us… and the Empire has survived much worse, from assassinations, demi-god worshipping cults, and the ever marching sands of time itself. Truly, they stand no chance."

When he rapped up his speech, General Cargas marched in front of the troops, making tracks in the sand, and stopped dead in the middle. "Look at these fine men," he said, pointing at the eight dead soldiers lying in the boat. "They were brave and courageous; strong and strapping; young and youthful-but all those factors failed them. Death can come for anyone of us at any time. I am honored that they chose to give themselves to the Empire, and that they served under me. Remember their names: Layfe, Theonidus, Ezgolath, Corvasque, Ludwig, Lexion, Samuel, and Jiv. It's part of a list that has existed since the founding of the Septim Empire at the beginning of the Second Era. All of your names will be on it one day. Could be old age that gets you, or it could be an enemy arrow through your pancreas. Either way, you'll be dead. Well… I think that's enough speeches, so let's get this over with."

He looked at the two uniformed men by the boat and they nodded in acknowledgement. Quickly, they turned and began to shove it against the lapping waves. They grunted and kicked up buckets of sand but they eventually worked themselves knee deep in the sea water. After a last push, the barge was drifting out onto the horizon. Everyone watched it as it rocked and swayed, seemingly going into the sky. Faux overhead one of the men in the second row whisper to someone next to them. "Hey, I think I can see a dolphin fin. Thought there was only slaughterfish in the Topal Sea." The archer dipped his arrowhead into the brazier just as the boat was far enough. He shut one eye in concentration and readied himself. After notching the arrow and pulling the string as far back as it could possibly without snapping the bow he gave himself a second to steady his aim before letting loose. It flew in a perfect arch, feathers fluttering, before diving back down and missing the barge by just an inch.

"Damn it," he swore. "Wind threw me off. Don't worry, I'll get it next time."

He reached for another arrow from his quiver. Suddenly, everyone shouted in alarm. A large, brown shark with an arrow sticking out of its side exploded out of the water and bit a chunk out of the barge's hold. "Shit!" All the soldiers were hollering and breaking formation as they ran up the water's edge. General Cargas shouted at them and grabbed a few, but it wasn't enough. Everyone watched as the shark tore apart the boat with several vicious bites from its jaws. In desperation, the archer notched another arrow and shot it at the shark. Amazingly, it founds its mark in its fin - a one in a million mark chance hit. However, the shark took very negatively to being riddled with arrows and worked itself into a frenzy. The boat finally capsized when it swam around and rammed it with its nose. Bodies spilled into salt water, floating into the depths. A few of the soldiers on the beach had their hands on their heads. Others were on their knees with pale, terrified faces. Faux was one of the latter.

"It must've thought the barge was a whale," said General Cargas, off to Faux's left " Don't worry though. They hate the taste of people. Eventually the bodies will become waterlogged, and they'll float back to the surface; then we can take a boat on out to get them."

To say that Faux was disheartened would be to understate the matter. He was crushed by the events at the funeral. After what went down General Cargas sent all the boys back to their posts with lots of finger shaking and threatening words. Before long the beach was emptied except for Faux himself, who stayed and stared at the waves for just a moment longer. A seagull dived into the water and come up with a wiggling fish in its talons.

Later, when Faux finally decided to go back to being productive, he climbed the stairs to the embassy and went to the only person he felt like seeing. The Imperial Embassy was not lacking many facilities. It had a barracks, a training courtyard, watchtowers, a meeting hall, a fully stocked kitchen, and even a general laboratory on the floor above the meeting hall. The lab was primarily used by the occasional alchemist, but in this case it was being utilized by a very well-read Altmer who had taken on a paid position.

"Tell me what you've discovered," Faux demanded after barging into the room. The lab was a large, rectangular room with a big table in the middle, similar to the meeting hall one floor below. Only difference was that the windows were kept open most of the time and the floorboards were sealed with an insulating cement. Also, there was a large number of glass equipment perched on the table, such as calcinators, glass phials, retorts, alembics, and the one or two mortar and pestels. The Altmer was busying himself with a quill and paper when Faux came in. He looked up from his handwriting and saw the warped figure of the officer from the other side of the glass retort.

"You want an update?" asked the Altmer, standing up shakily. He grabbed his cane from the table and went around so he could talk face-to-face with the officer. Faux wanted to get straight to the point though, and had no desire to deal out pleasantries. This Altmer was being paid by the hour. So if he wanted to waste time, he would have to do it on his own time.

"Yes, Lareal. Bring me up to speed with everything you know about the substance we gave you. I need to know what it is and why the skooma smugglers have been stockpiling it. Have you found anything? Report."

The substance in question was a glass jar of the milky liquid found at Warehouse 3. While most of them were smashed and splattered after the crates fell, a few of them were still intact with their contents sealed inside. One of those glass jars was sitting prettily on the lab table with a hole drilled into the lid. The others were stored away in Senchal's dungeons as evidence.

Lareal tapped his cane against Faux's leg and proceeded to lead him around the room. First, he took him towards the lab where a still was boiling a sample of the milky substance over a hot plate, producing a clear distilled liquid out of the glass outlet. Lareal pointed a finger at resulting outcome. "I don't know exactly what was in those jars, but what I do know is that what was in it was highly corrosive. Tell me, do you know anything about acids or bases?" Faux shook his head. "An acid is a chemical with a negative pH level. It can be a liquid or a solid, but corrosion only occurs as a liquid. A lot of drinks we consume are acidic, such as fruit squeezings and wine, but the pH is only slightly positive so it doesn't burn our bodies. Acids with high pH are extremely reactive, and can burn through other substances such as skin or metal." Staggering over to the other side of the table, Laneal picked up a vial containing many small white pebbles. He raised it up high so that Faux could get a good look at it. "This is sodium hydroxide as it is in solid form. It has an extremely _positive_ pH level, and is a one of the most reactive base chemicals. Incredibly enough, this is part of what made up that sample you gave me, and what's perplexing is that as a liquid, sodium hydroxide is supposed to be colorless, and as one of the strongest bases in the natural world, not even this could have done that much damage to your son's body." Pacing around the parameter of the room, Faux looked at all the work that Laureal had accomplished within only half a day's work. Scrolls of notes hung from the walls like tapestries. Charts and geographical maps were stretched across entire sections of the ceiling. Most these weren't here before and must've been brought in by the Altmer. It was baffling, nay, impossible for one man with a leg injury to do this in such short a time span.

"Are you an early bird?" asked Faux inquisitively, his back to Laureal, brushing his fingers against a row of corked vials filled with yellow powders.

"What?" Laureal tilted his head in confusion. "Well… no, I mean… I get up and about around six in the morning, but lots of people wake up by then. Farmers, for example, alway get up at the break of dawn to tend to their crops."

The elf said it so sincerely that Faux was almost keen to believing his own sleep schedule was abnormal by comparison. But the conversation was going off track. Faux stopped right below the map of Tamriel and craned his head up. "Sodium hydroxide… where does it come from? If this stuff has to be harvested then that means Krin's smuggling route can be traced. If we find the source we'll be able to put a cork on the whole operation. Laureal?"

He came to Faux's side and looked at map. It was highly detailed as far as maps go, with the name of every country on the continent of Tamriel, and the names of every mountain, river, lakes, and forest were labeled in small cursive letters. "I'd wager to guess that right here is the source of all this," he said, pointing at a small section of the map with his cane. The cane landed on the part labeled _High Rock_ at the top left corner.

"And why is that?" asked Faux.

Laureal brought his cane back down so as to stand without the threat of toppling over. Then he went back over to lab where the jar sample was and picked it up. "Sodium hydroxide is most commonly found in limestone. Many caverns are formed when underground rivers runs overtop these rocks, dissolving the earth until massive caves are formed. High Rock has an abundance of limestone, and these caverns. Most likely, they are harvesting it and extracting the chemicals. For what purpose, I don't know… but if I was a betting man, that's where I'd wager to say these jars are coming from."

"Then that's what I'll tell the General," stated Faux. He took a folded bank note out from his pocket and handed it to Laureal. It wasn't exactly a pouch full of golden septims, but it's worth was a lot more. It allowed the transference of five hundred golden septims for half a day's pay to Laureal's account. "There's more where that came from if you can figure out what else was in that sample. Keep up the good work." Laureal smiled brightly. When he took the job he had told Faux that it was never about the money, even though he very much needed it, but instead it was his incurable hunger for knowledge that drove him to his field of work. A peculiar line of work it was too, considering how prevalent magic was in everyday life. Magic was used to heal, and teleport single persons great distances. The Dwemer were once the most advanced race in the world, with airships that floated high up in the sky, but even they could not stay the test of time. They disappeared, leaving behind their buried cities. People seldom traversed them, as the machines they built still clattered about in those empty halls. Faux wondered if Laureal was perhaps somewhat related to the Dwemer. The notes and designs he had drawn up himself were quite a read. General Cargas had told Faux that some of what he had come up with could, with a little tweaking, be used to greatly increased their chances of victory in battle.

"Look at this," said Cargas, reading a scroll in from chair. "It's called _color fire_ and he's only thinking about using it to put on flashy shows for kiddies. Imagine what we could do if we took out the light show and just added some a bunch of metal fillings. It would rip our enemies to shreds."

Doubtful that Laureal would approve of the appropriation. He had filed a patent for his ideas, but the General was willing to bet that a few tweaks to the formula would allow them to bypass that. Faux left the lab and continued out of the meeting hall and into the courtyard. Some soldiers were going through their exercise routines, practicing hand to hand combat with a partner. Sebastian was one of them. His partner managed to twist his arm till Sebastian was flipped and thrown out onto the ground: an expertly performed takedown. Sebastion laid there and writhed for a good while before shakily getting up. When he did, Faux was there to help him.

"Sir?" He sounded embarrassed for having let himself be splayed in the presence of his superior. "I-I slipped up…"

"It's okay. That's what these drills are for. If you didn't get hurt in the process you wouldn't learn anything. Some advice though. If he tries something like that again use his weight against him. Lean into the attacker." Sebastian nodded and faced his opponent. Faux watched the young man, and this time he managed to do a little better. Still got beat pretty badly, but it was close. His opponent was big and muscular; difficult for a someone lithe and quick like Sebastian to take down by himself. _He's been trying so hard to get stronger ever since what happened. It must be difficult to come back after something so traumatizing. Hopefully, he'll find a way to make peace with himself._ Faux hadn't known Sebastian before the incident, but from what the other soldiers in his regiment have told him Sebastian was a recluse with only a few friends. Now, he didn't talk to those. Some watchtower guards have reported him snooping around at night. Faux took it mean he wasn't able to sleep. There was little he could do about that besides offer as much support as possible.

"You're doing good, Lieutenant."

Leaving behind the grunts and sweat of the courtyard, Faux went out of the front gates of the embassy. The observations that Laureal had spoken about was bothering him, prodding at his mind like a woodpecker. High Rock, the country of the Orsimer. Was it a coincidence that one such orc was now being held prisoner at Senchal's jail cells? Well, regardless, every lead was worth following up on. Faux trudged with a renewed purpose. The dirt paved road was loaded with citizens chatting and going in and out of stores. A group of children were eating honey glazed rolls outside of Cornell's Bakery.

 _Oh, right. I forgot that today was Merchant's Day. I'll have to hurry up then if I want to make it back in time for my meeting with the Mane and his guard._

Senchal's jail was a dismal place. It was located between the temple district and _The Black Kiergo_ so that the prisoners would be close to their Gods, but have a taste of Oblivion. The lesson was lost on most of them though, as Senchal's jail cells were a joke. It had the highest grossing breakouts than any other jail in Elsweyr. Daran'Fuso, or _The Thief's Rest_ , was the nickname the criminal underworld bestowed upon it. Standing outside of it, Faux could see why. Most wood was old and cracked. The roof itself had several rough patch jobs done to it. Faux stepped up to the door, and when he pushed on its frame the hinges were loosely screwed in and just about came out altogether. The only thing that could keep a person cooped up in this dive was their sense of honor.

Inside was barely a better image than the outside. Some lanterns on the wall were lit, highlighting the one desk. Do' Næt was seated there, picking his teeth with an iron dagger. He turned his attention to Faux, and his fur bristled.

"What do you want?" he asked threateningly. He rammed the dagger into the desk. It shook with its pommel pointed up before coming to a still. His "workspace" was covered in dust and cobwebs. A few racks of shields and swords skirted the walls, falling over due to disorganization. If Faux caught any of his Legion men taking care of their living space so poorly he would've made them clean it, rearrange, and then clean again, and again. The lone item of quality was a brown tapestry, a Khajiit saint artistically represented with a golden halo ring surrounding his body as the gods, both Adrea and Daedra, pouring water from clay urns over his body. Perhaps, in another building, this tapestry would've looked majestic, but the dim lighting, combined with present company, made the colors look muddy and gaudy.

"I heard that there was an orc… " replied Faux, crossing over to Do' Næt's side of the room. His eyes followed Faux like a predator. "... an orc who, apparently, is looking for Krin. Let me have audience with him. All I ask is a few minutes."

Do' Næt leaned forward and hocked a loogie right in the commander's face. Faux didn't move or blink.

"You filthy Imperials think you can just come into our country and tell us what to do. Because of you I have to stay in this boring skeever-hole all week with only spiders for company."

"What about your men?"

"Same difference. I could be outside right now, wine in both my hands and a woman in my lap. Why should I do you any favors, huh? You're just an outlander. And I don't like outlanders."

With a quick motion, Faux pulled out a pouch and dropped it onto the desk. The fall caused the rim to split open and a cascade of gold coins to spill out onto the wooden surface.

"One hundred septims," was all Faux said.

Faux had Do' Næt pegged the moment they locked eyes. He was Khajiit that loved gold more than himself, did nothing without reward, and used his position of power to bully others. The glint of greed shown in his irises. As soon as the Faux announced how much was in the pouch the Khajiit smirked and rose from his chair, suddenly behaving as if he was long time friend.

"Take your time."

A key chain with dozens of old, rusted keys hung from a hook by the lantern. Do' Næt took them down and shuffled through until he produced the one he wanted. "Follow me." He lead Faux to a door with a worn, square like handle. When the key was introduced to the lock there was a click and the door opened with an obnoxious squeak. _Oil would certainly not go unappreciated here,_ thought Faux. Through the door was a long hallway of iron bars lined from floor to ceiling. Just about every one of the cells were empty, with nothing but hay to cushion the floor and the occasional rat. Only two were occupied, one by the orc, the other by a nord humming to himself in the corner.

"Care to pay my bail?" laughed the nord. His attire was little more than brown linen rags. "If you do I'll be sure to mention you when scholars have written me into the history books. I'm gonna be a hero once I get out of here.

"Just ignore him," said Do' Næt, hitting one of the bars to the jail cell with the side of his blade to silence the nord. "He's just another narcissist who think the Elder Scrolls have chosen him… or an asshole. Either or both."

The ringing echoed throughout the hall. Faux turned away from the nord and gave his attention the orc in the opposing cell. He was sitting in the back near the window, cross legged and eyes closed. _Is he meditating or sleeping?_

"His name?"

Do' Næt coughed into his palm and wiped the phlegm off on his boots. The orc was a youth, still in his twenties but already trying his hair into a warrior's knot. Just looking at him and you would be hard pressed to say he looked like a criminal. He was serene and calm. _Or again, he might just be sleeping._ The sunlight from the window gave his green skin a kind of glow. "Ulfir gro-Skandaer is his name, or at least, that's what he told us. If he is who he says he is, then he's pretty famous. He'd be the son of Ulam gro-Skandaer, a clan chieftain up in High Rock with his own citadel. We call him The Pit."

"Why's that?"

With a head tilt, Do' Næt pointed out what seemed to be a large axe with no grip dangling like a trophy on the wall. It was made out of orsinium, so it had a dark green tint, like algae, and was easily the size of a small child. Peculiarly, the end of it blade was the heaviest part, curved, and with a width of two feet, easily. Then as it came closer to where the grip would the width gradually decreased until it was only half a foot. But by far, the strangest feature of the weapon was the handle, because there was none; in it's place was a round metal ring, like the wheel of a cart.

 _The Pit and the Pendulum._

"Alright. Let me speak with him. " The Khajiit sniffed mirthfully and left, closing the door behind him. Faux could've sworn he heard him muttering under his breath right before the door slammed shut though. Still, what did he care of the thoughts of a corrupt law enforcer. Faux turned his attention to the Orsimer, the entire reason he was here in the first place.

"Is your name really Ulfir gro-Skandaer? I heard you killed two militia men. Care to explain why?" The youth paid no notice, just sitting with his legs crossed, unmoving. Frustrated, Faux tried a different tactic; a different line of questioning. "Your father sounds like he has a lot of pull. Why hasn't he sent anyone to pick you up? Do and your dad have issues to work out?" Again, silence. Seeing as he wasn't making any progress, Faux decided to try and find answers elsewhere. He cross over to the table containing all of Ulfir's belongings, with the giant pendulum hanging above it. There was a set of orc armor, also orsinium but with a lining of silver around the edges. Faux picked up a gloved and examined it. The metal was folded over into thin sheets, like plate armor only lighter and easier to maneuver. It was obvious from looking at the armor set that the wearer was more focused on agility rather than protection, which raised the question as to why someone with that focus use a weapon as heavy and clumsy to use as a gigantic pendulum?

The other items were far less glorious, a bag of coins, dried meat, and a leather bound journal. Faux picked up the journal and was about to read it when he noticed a little doll off to the side. Judging from the green cotton used to make the skin, and style of dress that adorned it, the doll was miniature orc child. Black wool was used for the hair, the dress apparently cut out from a blue satin sheet and white hemp.

Faux made to pick it up, and just as his fingers brushed the fibers of the fabric he was stopped.

"I would be very happy if you didn't touch my belongings."

Ulfir gro-Skandaer was staring at the commander from his spot on the floor, his shoulders squared and his eyes hard. Apparently he was ready to start answering those questions from before.

"Ah… you've finally found your tongue." Faux abandoned the orc's things and came back to the front of the cell. "Cooperate and I promise I'll leave your belongings alone. You have my word. Now, care to tell me why you're so far from home? You said you were hunting down someone, a Khajiit by who goes by the honor of Rid'Krin. Why?"

The young orc stood up, his silhouette basking in the rays cast by the window. He met Faux's eye and didn't flinch, yet the commander sensed no malice. Respect, that's what he was trying to show. Orc custom was to always look their superior in the eyes when speaking, a custom that made many other races uncomfortable.

"Krin killed one of my father's clan members. Honor dictates that he or one of his sons must take the perpetrator's life, or have the perpetrator make an offering of equal or greater value. So here I am."

"Why was he in High Rock in the first place?"

"He was mining rock from our mines around the west coast. I don't know why. Doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," reprimanded Faux. "but that's okay. I think I have a good idea about what he was doing out there. What are you doing in Senchal though? You killed two law enforcement for no good reason. Frankly, you don't seem the type to do something like that. Tell me why."

"I don't know why. Maybe you're thrown off by my good looks."

Up till now Ulfir had shown little emotion besides mild anger. Suddenly, there was a touch of humor in his expression, as if he knew a particularly funny joke.

"This is a gilded city. Outside, they put up a front of gold by trying to make Senchal seems like a resort, a getaway for the upper class, but it doesn't take a genius to see the mud and bile underneath. The militia and politicians are corrupt. The divide between upper class and lower class is larger here than anywhere else, and the working class live in hovels. When I forced the name of this city out of a dead man's mouth, the first greeting I got was a sword's edge. Those "guards" approached me in a tavern after I had been asking around. Maybe they were real. Maybe they weren't. Either way, they tried to kill me first. Can you blame me if I defended myself?"

It made sense. Unless Ulfir was lying, it seemed like they shared a common enemy, and he was being framed for crime that wasn't his fault. That's when an idea formed in Faux's head. Surely, with their combined strength they'd be able to catch Krin. Both of them wanted revenge, and revenge was a powerful motivator. There was no reason for him to decline.

"How about I get you out of here?" Ulfir raised an eyebrow questionably. "We both want Krin dead, and I'm tied down by my position as commanding officer. I have responsibilities. You don't. If you say you'll work for me, I'll pay your bail. Then you can delve into the underworld and relay me information. What do you say?"

Ulfir shook his head, his smile melting away.

"No. This hunt is a matter of honor. I'm to do this alone."

Without saying a word more, he went back to the back of his jail cell and sat down, crossing his legs as he went back to meditating. There was little else that Faux could do. Either he could stay and sulk at him, or leave and try and make some actual headway. He left. Do' Næt opened the exit for him after Faux had been knocking on it for a solid minute. He look like he had just woken up from a nap. Faux nearly twisted off the jail's handle as he left, eager was he in his haste to leave. Bell's chimed in the distance, signaling the opening of the city gates. The street he was on was empty except for a cat investigating a street gutter. "Merchant's Day," whispered Faux. Startled, the cat blazed off. Faux decided he need to make trails as well, and he began a hurried pace to the North East section of the city.

Rid-Shakfu was coming.

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Authors Note:

Sorry, I normally don't do notes, but I feel like its a tad necessary considering how long this chapter took. Originally I only intended it to be the same length as the others. Obviously, I wrote a whole lot more though.

I may have to take a bit of a hiatus, since finals are beginning to rear their heads. Grades come first for a university student. Still, I'll write when I find the time, so that should help somewhat for when the next chapter is put out.

I'd like to thank my followers, or follower, for sticking around this long. And if you've been reading and enjoying my work, please click follow. Also, if you've been following along but have not written a review, please do so. If you hate it, tell me why. Again, thank you. More of the story is coming.


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